The Destruction of the Last of American Culture
by YourMother'sSon
Summary: America is betrayed by one of his best friends. One shot Crack fic, rated T for language and generally stupid topics. Don't read it. Ever.


**Please don't read this.  
This is the worst thing ever.  
I find it fucking hilarious, but I doubt any of you will think it as funny as I do.**

**Also, be aware that it's poorly written. I only spent like, an hour on it.  
Like I said, don't read it. You won't like it.**

* * *

It had been a long day for the great United States of America.

As it always was, the G8 summit had been incredibly hectic. Perhaps even more hectic than usual.

As the Hero, America had taken it upon himself to lead the meeting, despite it being at his brother's house. Even so, Matthew had insisted he needed to be the "ultimate host," and had thus spent most of the meeting asking if anyone would like another cup of tea or offering the other nations rolled up bologna and bacon on little skewers. Honestly, the nerve of it; offering such fine cuisine when he knew Alfred was on a strict diet!

None of the other nation's were particularly helpful, either. Francis had just learned the exact nature of Feliciano's errant curl, and had spent the whole meeting exploiting it, even after Germany issued an ultimatum. This started a scuffle, which caused both Feliciano and Matthew to cry (in his defense, they were tears of pain; he'd been bumped and spilled hot tea all over himself) as Ivan giggled, barely able to contain his joy at the other's obvious misery. Arthur had then found it necessary to scream and shout as Francis pulled at his own son's stained shirt, practically begging him to take it off.

And the whole time, Kiku didn't do a God damn thing. Even when Alfred had begun to shout, he hadn't even tried to help calm the madness. He had just sat there, sipping his fucking tea, watching the chaos with a seemingly blind eye.

Needless to say, Alfred was glad to be home. In America, things were easy. Things were simple. Things were normal. None of that crazy bullshit, with their languages and their customs. Fuck, they should at least learn to speak proper American. None of this "scone" or "kilometer" or "bloke" crap.

It was good to be back in the United States of America, land of the Free and home of the Brave. What Alfred wouldn't give for a burger right now.

He turned the handle of his front door, stepping through with a sigh. Tossing his jacket aside (letting it fall on the floor), he yawned, rubbing his eyes. It was late and he was exhausted, but hunger overrode his need for sleep. He would just go have a quick snack, then it was straight to bed!

Thus, the young nation strolled through the house, his boots quietly clip-clopping on the laminate of his floor, into the kitchen. With a flick of the switch, the lights came on; but it was not a pleasant view that greeted him.

His eyes widened at the sight of the intruder, and a shiver ran down his spine. "Y-you!" His voice seemed to echo in the heavy silence of the kitchen, and even then, the offending personage did not speak.

There on the table sat a cheeseburger. The wrapping had been spread out beneath it like a blanket, wrinkled and bright yellow, with little red word's scrawled across it. This was no ordinary burger; this was a McDonald's Double Cheeseburger. The bun was sprinkled in sesame seeds, and the two patties were pressed tightly together, as if the burger were giving him a tight-lipped grin.

"W-what are you doing here?" Alfred stuttered, stumbling backwards in an attempt to keep far from the intruder. "You know I'm dieting. You know you can't be here! I don't want you here."

The burger didn't seem to care. It just continued to grin it's placid smile, which reminded America far too much of Russia's own smile. He could almost hear the burger teasing him in that all too familiar, childish voice. _"Put a smile on..."_ it seemed to whisper, attempting to put him at ease, to draw him nearer.

And it seemed to be working. Alfred found himself standing at the small kitchen table, gazing down at the cheeseburger. It's soft, smooth, lightly-browned bun, topped with sesame seeds, looked tempting, but at the same time, intimidating. He had to stay strong, he had to resist. He was in an awful recession; he had to keep to his diet.

"Get out," he said, attempting to sound strong. However, his voice came out in a hoarse whisper, cracked and weak. He swallowed hard, biting his lip, trying not to look away. Not to show fear.

It all happened so fast. In a moment, the cheeseburger seemed to jump into his hands, and was pressed against his lips. Mustard was smeared on his face as he tried to fight, but it was useless. He tumbled to the floor, the burger still upon him, refusing to let up.

Grey-brown patties (made of 100% "beef") gained entrance to his mouth, and the sickly-sweet taste of ketchup filled his mouth. A limp piece of soggy lettuce brushed against his tongue, and his eyes widened in horror. This couldn't be happening. He'd tried so hard. He'd come so far, just to be broken. To be defiled like this.

Tears sprang to the great nation's eyes as he fought in vain against the intruder, trying to stop the inevitable. In his head, a mantra began to repeat itself; This can't be happening. This isn't happening. This can't be happening...

Alfred soon gave up fighting. What else could he do? He knew it would be over soon, and he knew that there was nothing that could stop the horrible monster of meat and bun from getting what it wanted. So he allowed it to happen.

His eyes glazed over as the cheeseburger began to force itself deeper into his mouth, down his throat. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, feeling cold on his flesh, which burned with embarrassment. Mustard and ketchup dripped from between the buns of the burger, onto his neck and chest. In the distance, through the tears, he could see the bright yellow wrapper, sitting on the table.

_"I'm lovin' it."_ Over and over, scrawled red on the wrapper, red on the walls of America's mind, echoing in his ears, as if it were the burger itself that spoke_. "I'm lovin' it, I'm lovin' it, I'm lovin' it,"_ the meal seemed to moan. Nothing Alfred did could keep the sound from penetrating his mind.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended, and the burger was gone. A single errant pickle was left on the floor, as if it were a testament to what had transpired. It seemed to mock Alfred as he rolled over, curling up on the hard linoleum floor where he lie, tears mingling with condiments that smeared his face.

You can throw away the wrapper, the pickle seemed to say. You can clean your face, you can get up and brush yourself off, but you will never forget.

* * *

The Honourable Barack Obama sat in his chair (wearing nothing but a pair of old boxers and holey socks), one hand resting on his belly, the other using the remote to drive his TV. The First Lady, Michelle, stood in the doorway, a hand on her hip.

"Barry, where's my burger?" She did not sound happy.

"It's in the kitchen, dear," the President of the United States replied, taking a long sip from his can of beer.


End file.
